


the person who loved him most

by JessenoSabaku



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Father/Son Incest, Implied/Referenced Incest, Other, Self-Worth Issues, emotional incest, not sure how else to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessenoSabaku/pseuds/JessenoSabaku
Summary: The first time Hanzo fell in love with archery was during the only competition his father ever participated in. He was eight years old at the time.-A brief vent piece about being in love with, and being loved by, someone you never should.
Relationships: Hanzo Shimada & Sojiro Shimada, Hanzo Shimada/Sojiro Shimada
Kudos: 6





	the person who loved him most

**Author's Note:**

> There's not really anything enjoyable in this fic. Not any porn, or any really happy things. Honestly, I don't even know if the fic will read as incest--that's how deeply buried the distinction is. But I felt like I should post this, because I started it in 2018 to come to terms with some emotional incest I experienced in my family, and though I never finished, I was at least proud of this part.
> 
> I'm not really expecting anybody to get anything out of this. And I'm sure people who are subscribed to me will be unhappy about it. So, I apologize for that. Since this is my own experience, and I'm not really down to get weird comments about that, I'm going to restrict comments to registered users only, and moderate them if I receive any. But y'all will probably be fine, right?
> 
> Thanks for understanding.

The first time Hanzo fell in love with archery was during the only competition his father ever participated in. He was eight years old at the time. An esteemed archery group in Hanamura organized a casual tournament for some of the city’s most prominent and promising families. They had invited Sojiro to participate, offering his authority a nod of obedience. The week before the competition, he shocked them by humoring their request. He casually signed the missive in Hanzo’s presence, handing it over for him to read and observe his response. That small piece of paper, a noble scrap of archaism, threw the competition’s hosts into a clamor of last-minute preparation. Hanzo had never before seen his father make such an unpredictable decision. His unease was only outweighed by his curiosity.

When the day came, Hanamura had just tasted its first breath of spring. The Shimadas arrived at the competition perfectly on time with no fanfare, only a black and silent procession of men in suits. A few clouds hung in front of the sun, dutifully deflecting blades of sunlight. Hanzo’s father strode out in front, with a row of tightly-packed guards separating him from his family. They were seated in a special area on the grass, marked out by two festooned pikes, beautiful satin pillows, brightly colored blankets, and a protective perimeter of guards. There, Hanzo, his mother, and his brother knelt and watched Sojiro Shimada do what he did best: conquer.

For Hanzo, every round of the competition bled together. The borders between preliminary rounds, semifinals, and finals felt irrelevant. All swirled around the bow in Sojiro’s grasp and the knobbed white skin of his knuckles. He clenched the ornately-carved wooden bow in his hand, a relic of the clan passed down from his grandfather. His grip was effortless and yet taut as he nocked the arrow and pulled it back over and over. His lips moved in a silent and distracted whisper that Hanzo could have sworn folded the distance between him and the target.

His victory was not a question. His grace was more powerful than wind, than fire, and still as the eye of a hurricane. As he hit every mark with deadly precision, Hanzo heard the polite clapping of the audience build steadily into genuine applause. He watched as his father’s dark eyes, always cold and unwavering, for the first time twinkled with an obsidian gleam. A stone that Hanzo had unconsciously shored up in his stomach began to melt from the inside. The surface of his composure cracked, something warm and syrupy beading out. Something like happiness, almost the same as what he saw in his father’s eyes.

He saw his father let go, and so he did too. He knew it was improper behavior for the firstborn son of the Shimada clan, but when his father won the semifinals, Hanzo clapped his tiny hands together until his fingers burned. His mother put a hand on his shoulder and whispered words of warning that tingled threateningly against the shell of his ear. He only froze when his father turned to look at him, face in a familiar mold of impassive disappointment. Hanzo expected to be given a one-handed signal of disapproval, a silent gesture that was only for use when in important company. He waited with tight lungs for the remonstration.

Instead, his father bowed in half in his family’s direction. As he straightened, he met Hanzo’s gaze and lifted his hand in a wave. Hanzo’s heart soared, and with it, the stone inside him fissured with excruciating heat. His eyes watered as his father turned around. That great head had lowered for his small hands. That had been for him, and everyone saw. He carefully glanced out of the corners of his eyes and caught people peeking at him with reverence, plainly thinking, _Shimada-sama’s oldest son. The heir to the dragon._

Genji laughed joyfully and grasped Hanzo’s sleeve, pointing to their father. Hanzo desperately clutched Genji’s hand, responding with affectionate words whose shape he would not remember later.

When the competition ended, the ground rumbled with the applause of the audience. Many men and women got to their feet and silently clapped, faces serene and happy. Hanzo’s family remained seated, maintaining an air of grace and respectability. Inside, Hanzo wanted to jump to his feet and applaud along with everyone else. He wished he were a stranger in that crowd who could make himself known by the strength of his adoration.

The judges approached and adorned his father with a medal. Sojiro bowed his head to receive it, accepting such an ordinary object with sincere gratefulness, as if he were not a man who could acquire any priceless artifact whenever he wished. He then turned to bow to his public with a magnanimous air.

The warm afternoon sun haloed Sojiro’s body in gold. He burned so bright that Hanzo couldn’t turn his gaze away. Sojiro locked eyes with him again, truly seeing him. Seeing nothing but him, the same way Hanzo forgot everyone else when in his father’s presence. And then Sojiro smiled. He looked twenty years younger. Hanzo suddenly felt Sojiro had always been that young, and it was the scrim of his own childhood that had hidden his father’s true nature. Sojiro was timeless, like a boy on the cusp of manhood who just won his high school qualifiers, smiling with pride into the crowd at the person who loved him most. In that moment, Hanzo knew Sojiro, and Sojiro knew him.

Hanzo felt important. He felt proud of his father, and proud of himself. He felt the crowd’s applause thrumming in his bones, building to a roar.

He felt beautiful.


End file.
